Clocks, locks, phones and keys
are of no more interest
than a crumpled wad of bills
and jangling coins in her purse.

She sings and dances
like a medieval troubadour.

Flummoxed by the news of the day,
she prefers not to know what’s going on,
unless she hears it from Stewart or Colbert.

She never knows what time it is,
and gets lost at the zoo, talking
to animals who sense she’s one of them,
and belongs there, too.

She’s a natural born artist, who paints watercolors
of the poetry of Zen gardens, with flowering peonies
leaning toward the sun.
The pastel shades of pink and blue in the sky
can be seen in her works of art.

She takes photos of strangers with smiling faces,
who have psychic light in their coal-black eyes.

Lithe as an acrobat, she’s at home in her body,
and never lost touch with the child within,
able to bond with toddlers in a merry-g-round of play.

Happiness is running through a field of Black-Eyed Susans.

Alive in a way most folks are not,
she’s a fugitive from the lackluster way things are done.
In a black and white world, she lives in a realm
of HDTV, loaded with billions of pixel colors,
where cherry blossoms bloom in eternal Spring.